Chapter 4 #5
“Did she ever talk about having a different life? Before she got, you know, religious?”
He glanced at me but said nothing. He swallowed, wiped some mustard off his lips, then cleared his throat.
“Why are you asking me that?”
“Because just before she died, that day in Africa, she told me that she’d changed.”
“Changed?”
“Yeah. She said she’d been a different type of person before, a selfish person who lost her heart and soul. I never remember her that way . . . Do you know what she was talking about?”
I studied his reaction. I wanted to see if my mother had ever told him about her power, to know if we shared that secret.
It felt important. I’m not sure why. When you realize you are about to lose a parent, you suddenly want to know everything, say everything, share every little detail you omitted during the years when you were taking them for granted.
“Your mother suffered, Alfie,” my father said.
“Suffered from what?”
“An illness.” He paused. “A mental illness.”
I blinked. “What are you talking about?”
“She imagined things. She was haunted by events that never happened.”
“Like what?”
He crumpled a napkin in his fingers and turned his gaze out the open car door. “Like she’d been a drinker, for one.”
“A drinker?”
“Yes. An alcoholic. So bad she’d gone to jail.”
“Mom went to jail?”
“That’s what she imagined.”
“I never saw her drink.”
“She did when we first met. But then she suddenly stopped. She never had a problem. And God knows she never went to jail.” His voice lowered. “Or met up with other men. Or left the country . . .”
“Wait. She told you she did all that?”
“No. I found out after she died.”
“How?”
He looked back at me. “Her therapist.”
“Mom had a therapist?”
“For years, apparently. When we came back from Africa, the woman got in touch with me, you know, to say she was sorry. She said that Mom had been a brave woman over the years. She was surprised I never knew about their sessions.
“I asked to meet with her. I begged her to share what Mom had said. She refused at first, because of the ethics, you know? But I said our time together was so short and now that I wouldn’t get any more, I wanted to know everything I could about her.”
He paused. “That’s when she told me those stories.”
I was stunned.
“What did you say, Dad?”
“I said they had to be lies. But apparently, your mom had shared all these details about the years after you were born. She’d said she’d suffered postpartum depression, that she’d become a terrible alcoholic, that I’d come to visit her in jail, and you had, too, and she felt really badly about that.
She’d even run away from us for a stretch.
“I didn’t know what to tell this therapist, except that whoever Mom was talking about wasn’t the woman I was married to.”
He shook his head for several seconds, as if stuck staring at something that didn’t make sense. “It was crazy, Alfie.”
I took a deep breath. “I’m sorry, Dad.”
“I guess it’s only right that you know.”
“Thank you.”
“It’s OK.”
“But, Dad?”
He looked up.
“I need to tell you something.”
“All right.”
I put a hand on his shoulder. He glanced curiously at the gesture.
“Mom wasn’t lying. She had a gift. She was able to do things twice in her life. She could go back in time, redo events. All that stuff? It probably did happen, and then she undid it, which is why we don’t remember. You and I only remember the second version.”
My father snorted, then half smiled. “Are you trying to make me feel better with this silliness?”
“No,” I said. “I’m trying to tell you the truth. Because I guess she never could. She really did have that power.”
I paused. “And I have it, too.”
“To go back in time?”
“Yes.”
My father looked away. He started rocking back and forth nervously.
“Alfie,” he said softly, “are you OK? Your health?”
I squeezed his shoulder.
“I’m OK.”
“I think . . . maybe I didn’t do a very good job bringing you up.”
“That’s not true, Dad. You did great. You did everything you could. Why would you say that?”
“Because . . .”
“What?”
“Because you’re not well. You’re becoming delusional. Like she was.”
I dropped my head. Why had I told him? I felt like a cave dweller who finally ventures out into a blizzard, only to realize he was better off in the cave.
“Dad. Listen.” I lowered my voice. “I want to say how much I love you. And if anyone didn’t do a good job, it was me. I didn’t appreciate all you had to go through. I’m sorry. For everything.”
His eyes were tearing up.
“I don’t understand,” he said shakily. “What’s happening here?”
I forced a smile. “Nothing that will matter.”
I pulled him close. His cheek rubbed against mine.
“Twice,” I whispered.
Instantly, we were back at the golf course parking lot, getting into the car. I turned the ignition and flipped on the radio. A few minutes later, we were cruising past Burt’s.
“Remember that old place?” my father said, pointing.
“Yeah. They served root beer.”
“And terrible hot dogs.”
“Yeah. Awful hot dogs.”
My hands gripped the steering wheel.
“You played good today, Alfie,” my father said.
“You did, too.”
“For an old man, you mean?”
“Yeah. For an old man.”
He chuckled. I was so grateful for his smile, I nearly cried.
?
I tell you that story, Boss, because it was the last time I redid anything in my life—-until yesterday.
And yesterday couldn’t be helped. I’d been staying away from my gift deliberately, kind of like an addict who swears off his poison.
Life has been different in the present tense, I’ll admit that.
You pay closer attention to things. You’re more appreciative. More accepting.
But it wasn’t losing my father that led to this decision.
It was another woman.
Nassau
“Well, OK,” LaPorta mumbled, thumbing the page. “We’re finally talking about yesterday.”
“What’s that?” Sampson said.
“This story.”
“I thought you said it was garbage.”
“It is, I guess. I don’t know. I think I’m getting to the part where he confesses.”
“Well, do you want to read or do you want to do your job?”
“What do you mean?”
Sampson killed the engine.
“We’re here.”
LaPorta looked up. He had been so engrossed in the notebook, he didn’t realize they were in the parking lot of The Ocean Club Resort.
He stared through the windshield at the blanched--almond facade, and the guests lounging on their balconies.
He was torn. The notebook might help him solve the case.
But Gianna Rule was a suspect, given the money she was sent.
And every passing minute was a minute when she could slip away.
“Ahhrrg,” he groaned, pushing his palms against his forehead. Then he dog--eared the page he was reading and shoved the notebook into his bag.
“Let’s go,” he said.