Chapter Nine #4
the time. And I was successful. The youngest attorney to make
partner in the firm's history."
I've heard him tout that
honor a thousand times, but always with an arrogance that is
conspicuously absent now. Now he says it with regret, and the
distinction holds my undivided attention.
"Your mother knew I had a
problem. She's always known me better than anyone, since she was
sixteen years old. But her pointing it out, asking me to stop
drinking, it only made me angry and deny it.
"You see, I had an idea of
what an alcoholic was, and it wasn't me. It wasn't success and
esteem. And the worse things got when I did drink, it just became
easier and easier to make excuses to myself."
He takes another deep
breath, and pushes his hand through his still-full head of chestnut
hair, another habit we share. I watch my father, unblinking,
riveted by the shadow of another version of him—one I almost forgot
existed, one completely lost behind far more potent memories. The
version that would appear for brief periods following one of his
episodes. The one full of contrition and remorse, apologies and
promises he would so easily forget the next time he had one too
many.
His shame over his
behavior lasted the number of days it took for the bruises to fade,
or in one case, my sling to come off, and not a moment longer. But
now, it's been five years, and the adamancy of his regret shines
sharper than I've ever seen before, even in his most pitiful
moments.
He looks back down at his
desk and his voice grows softer. "I never stopped loving Lainey.
Not for a single moment." I hear his swallow. "Or you either,
Samuel. Or Beth."
I look away, daunted by
this whole confession of his. I had emotionally prepared myself for
quite a bit, considering the nature of what this meeting was
supposed to be about,
but this… I expected him to die of old age or liver failure before
ever uttering these words.
I allow my eyes to skate
around his office for the first time since I arrived. Aside from a
few knick-knacks and the updated guest furniture, nothing has
changed. My gaze lands back on my father's desk, zeroing in on the
three framed photos. I think I stop breathing. There's a photo of
the four of us from when I was about eleven or so, including my
mother mid-laugh, my father's eyes trained adoringly on her instead
of looking at the camera.
Then there's one of Bits
from her dance recital when she was twelve. That was only a few
years ago—at least a year after he left.
And then there's the
largest of the frames, housing my senior portrait, and tucked in
the bottom right corner is a wallet size of my football portrait,
also from this year. My father follows my gaze and picks up the
frame, taking a moment to look wistfully at my image. It confuses
me even more.
I don't know what I
expected. Maybe for him to completely wipe away any evidence of our
existence—any reminders of his one failure. To tell everyone he
initiated the divorce, and good riddance. Not to keep a
happy-family photo and updated portraits of Bits and me on his
desk.
"I asked your mother for
them," he explains.
I glare at him in
confusion. I don't know if I'm more perplexed by his saying he
loves me, or the fact that he has my photos on his desk, or that
he's in amicable enough contact with my mother to have obtained
them from her. I feel as if I've been flung into some alternate
universe, and I wish I had some sense that I was being manipulated,
because that would make a hell of a lot more sense than his
apparent sincerity.
"I kicked you out of your
own fucking house," I remind him. "I almost reported you, got you
arrested. I could have ruined your life. I was ready to do it,
too." I need him to remember what I remember. To see things how
I've seen them for as long as I can
remember. That he chose alcohol over us,
traumatized us for life in the process, and that I betrayed him in
return, threatening what he valued most—his career.
My father only nods,
taking me from confused to completely lost.
"I remember, Sammy. I was
drunk, but I remember it very clearly, I assure you." But his tone
isn't accusatory, it's… almost admiring.
My brow furrows and my
mouth gapes open.
"It was my rock bottom,
that night," he whispers. "I'd gone pretty low before, which you
know. But that night… Lainey's face…" His voice cracks and he stops
to regain his composure.
"That night, Sammy, you
became more of a man that I'd ever been—could ever be. You protected your
family. You stood up and did what you had to do. And… and I admit I
didn't see it immediately—and I realize the irony here—but that was
my proudest moment as a father.
"I left because you gave
me no other choice. You took away my excuses and any other options.
And as a result, I did the only thing I could—I got sober. I stayed
away because I didn't deserve my family, I knew that. I
know it. But I took
comfort in knowing my girls had a real man to look after them. So
no, son, I'm not angry with you for standing up to me, I couldn't
be more grateful. I owe you everything."
I exhale my disbelief and
blink away from him. It's just too much to fucking absorb. But then
my gaze lands on the coin dangling from a thin ball chain, hung
proudly over the top right corner of his prided framed diploma from
Columbia Law School. The Roman numeral V in the center confirms his
story. Five years sober. And I'm knocked even further off
balance.
"You stopped drinking?" I
barely recognize my own voice, timid and unsure, like the child I
never really got to be.
But before he can even
give the confirmation I already know to be true, I shake my head,
remembering myself. Because what the fuck does it matter that he's
sober now? It
doesn't fix anything. It doesn't undo the injuries or the trauma,
both emotional and physical, nor does it make him the dad I
deserved, when I actually needed one. But that kid is gone, and
this man in front of me, drunk or sober, recovering alcoholic or
alcoholic abusive bastard, is nothing more to me than a stranger at
best.
He sighs, as if he senses
me returning to my senses, breaking out of his spell of remorse,
sobriety, and supposed pride for me, and back into
reality.
"Listen, Sam, I wasn't
expecting your forgiveness—"
"Good, because you're not
getting it."
My father nods to himself
in acceptance. "I suppose I've always known that. Which is why I
haven't contacted you. In case you thought it was because I didn't
care, or that I didn't love you. It's—"
Christ. "It doesn't matter, either way." My tone contains a subtle
warning. I'm reaching my limits of listening to him profess his
love and concern. True or not, it's total bullshit. Far too little,
far too late.
He nods again. "I just
wanted you to understand where I'm coming from. I know I've hurt
you beyond the scope of the forgivable. But you came to me, Sam.
And I was just looking out for your interests. When I asked you how
well you knew the Pine girl, I was just trying to make
sure—"
"Her interests
are my interests," I say
sharply, my voice rising more than I'd meant it to, and I take a
moment to calm myself before I continue.
I sit forward in my chair,
resting my elbows on my thighs, needing him to know just how
serious I am. "Look, Mitch, you can help me, like you said you
would, or I can figure something else out. But I'm going to protect
Rory, no matter what I have to do. So you can either help make sure
that motherfucking bastard gets real jail time, or you can get ready to prepare my
murder defense, Dad."
He watches me carefully,
and his grim expression tells me he knows I mean every single
fucking word.
We stare at each other for
long, sober moments, until my father's eyes crinkle at the corners.
He holds his lips straight, but his eyes fail to veil their
amusement.
"Too wise for love in high
school, eh?"
My gaze drops to my lap.
"We're just friends," I mutter pathetically.
"Bullshit."
I don't bother denying it.
Because we may just be friends, but my father is right, it is
fucking bullshit.
I rub my face with my
palms, and then rake them through my hair, one after the other. All
my confidence and anger drains out of me, replaced with frustration
and desperation, and I drop my head into my hands.
"Tell me how to help her,"
I plead.
My father stands, and I
don't bother looking up as he makes his way around his desk and
tentatively places his hand on my shoulder. I don't even
flinch.
"Sammy," he says, and
squats down to my eye level, waiting until I meet his
gaze.
I look at him with a
childlike helplessness that I despise with every cell in my body.
It's a desperate vulnerability that I need fucking resolved. I need
Rory's demons either locked up or slain, not just for her, but
for me. Because I
can fool myself into believing I'll someday be able to get over
her, but I know I'll never have even a shadow of peace of mind
until I can be sure that she's safe.
"I promise you, we will
help your friend. I will do everything in my significant political and legal
power to bury her
piece of garbage rapist," he says adamantly, and I believe him.
"And I know how difficult this is for you, but I need you to trust
me. You need to be patient and listen to what I tell you, and most
importantly… don't do anything fucking stupid, Sammy, you hear me?
If that girl cares half as much about you as you obviously do her,
she needs you to be cool-headed and calm. The last thing she needs
is you doing something reckless, son. You get yourself locked up,
and where does that leave her?"
Exactly where she fucking
is, just with one less friend
who doesn't even talk to her
anymore.
But I don't say it out
loud. It would do no good. Because she may not know that I'm still
looking out for her, but I do, and so my father is right—I'm more
good to Rory if I do things his way, as much as I know how much
more gratifying meting out violence for violence would
be.
Because I sure as hell
can't say that I didn't enjoy the punishment I doled out in that
goddamned alley. The only part that dulled the satisfaction was the
knowledge that I would have to stop. That I couldn't just finish it
there. The cops were on their way, and there were too many people
around. But I won't pretend I haven't considered doing it the right
way. Planning, calculating… and executing. Literally.
But I know the legal
recourse is the best option. So I will trust my father—this man I
thought I knew and long ago judged, and who, despite his remorse,
does not deserve my forgiveness. But I do so knowing that if we
fail, if it turns out my father is not quite as influential as he
believes himself to be, that there is another way to ensure
that motherfucking bastard can never hurt Rory again. And though it will probably
irreparably alter the course of my future, it's a risk I'm prepared
to take. Because I know the alternative risk—Rory's safety—is not
one I'm willing to leave up to chance, or the fucked up whims of a
degenerate, sadistic animal.