Chapter Thirty-Five
It’s been a good week. The snow held off until last night, giving us time to wrap all our pipes with heat tape and to install the new water rippler systems to keep water moving in our tanks and prevent them from icing over.
Because of the holiday, I’m taking Ruby to Momma instead of the church this morning. She, of course, has breakfast waiting when we arrive, and she, Pop, Ruby, and I sit down together before I head out to find Darby.
Momma and Ruby plan their day. Opting for a pajama-and-movie day since the snowfall last night left seven inches on the ground.
Ruby was delighted when she woke up. She’d never seen snow before, and the wonder on her face when she looked out the window took my breath.
I promised her that we would go outside and play in it for a little bit after work and before I left to pick Shelby up for our playdate.
Once we’re finished with breakfast, Pop looks at Momma. “You got her?”
Momma glances to me, then back to him and nods. My stomach tightens at her expression.
“Come with me, son,” he says.
I nod and follow him out of the dining room, down the hall, and into his office.
Caison is already there, seated on the edge of the desk.
He looks as tired as I feel—dark circles under his eyes, jaw set tight.
“This can’t be good,” I mutter as I take the chair across from them. “Feels like an ambush.”
Pop clears his throat and slides a manila folder across the desk toward me.
I open it.
A Nevada birth certificate stares back at me.
My chest seizes.
I look up at Pop. “You found Candy?”
He nods. “I did.”
He tells me, “Her real name was Freya Jane Briggs. Twenty-four years old. Originally from Greencastle, Indiana.”
My eyes drop back to the paper.
Ruby Jane Briggs.
Born September 15.
Mother: Freya Jane Briggs.
Father: Unknown.
Unknown.
The word punches me square in the gut.
Then it hits me.
“Wait,” I say hoarsely. “Did you say was? Her name was Freya?”
Caison shifts uncomfortably. Pop nods once, slow and heavy.
“She was found unresponsive three weeks ago in the parking garage of the Golden Nugget,” Pop says solemnly. “There was nothing they could do.”
Fuck.
I squeeze my eyes shut, the word echoing in my skull. Images flood my mind—flashes of neon, tinkling laughter, a beautiful woman with tired eyes and a smile that didn’t quite reach them.
“She …” I swallow the lump in my throat. “How did it happen?”
Pop leans forward. “Overdose. An employee found her on her way into work.”
My hands shake as I close the folder.
“She was alone,” I say. It’s not a question.
Caison speaks up, voice low. “From what Holland’s PI could gather, she didn’t have much of anyone left. Her parents were deceased, and she had only one estranged sibling.”
“What did they do with her?”
“She was cremated,” Pop says. “Clark County Coroner’s Office had her remains. They were trying to find her next of kin. My guy is picking them up and bringing them here for Ruby.”
“And the sibling?”
“A younger sister, Cheyenne Briggs. Our guy is trying to locate her now to let her know.”
The room feels too small. Too tight.
I push back in my chair and stand, pacing to the window and back again.
“She must have been scared,” I mutter. “Twenty-four. No support. She didn’t deserve that.”
Pop doesn’t argue. He doesn’t comfort either. He just lets the truth sit between us.
“What happens now?” I ask finally.
Pop steeples his fingers. “You have to tell Ruby.”
“Tell Ruby?” I snap, panic rising. “How do I tell a four-year-old she’s never gonna see her mother again?”
“Gently,” Pop says. “You be honest. Answer her questions to the best of your ability. Then you reassure her. Tell her she’s safe and loved. That you aren’t going anywhere. And show her every day that those words are true.”
I swallow hard.
“I screwed up,” I say. “I should have never given Candy that money and let her leave.”
“Son, that little bit of money didn’t kill her. Her own poor choices did. That’s not on you.”
“Sure it is. I knew she was in a bad way.”
“What’s done is done. The important thing now is Ruby.”
“I shouldn’t have ever listened to you. We were better off not knowing.”
“Why?”
“Because at least then she’d have hope. Hope that she’d see her mother again someday.”
“False hope is just a different kind of heartbreak. She’d have grown up, wondering why her mother didn’t love her enough to come looking for her. At least now she can have some form of closure.”
I shake my head. “She needs hope.”
“All she needs is her father,” he yells.
Anger boils inside of me.
“What would you know about that? Huh, old man? You weren’t there when I needed you. You cared more about the fucking cows in the field than you did about your own son. Why the hell should I listen to a word you have to say about what my daughter needs?”
“You’re right, son. I was a damn mess back then. I didn’t know how to help you or your mother through your grief when I was drowning in mine. So, I threw myself into work,” he admits.
“And left me to pick up the pieces.”
He nods. “Yes.”
“I was just a kid.”
“I know. And I’m sorry.”
“Sorry? You’re sorry? Sorry doesn’t give me my childhood back.
It doesn’t reverse the fact that I started drinking to numb the pain.
That I wasted the last eight years on the run from you.
From your suffocating expectations. You want to know why I left?
Because the last thing I ever wanted to fucking do was work with you.
I’d rather live off the kindness of strangers on the streets. ”
He walks over to me, and instead of arguing, he wraps his arms around me, knocking my hat off my head and cradling me in his arms. Hugging me tight to his chest. And I lose it. I start sobbing like an eight-year-old.
“I didn’t protect her. Just like I didn’t protect Crissy.”
“You couldn’t have stopped what happened to her any more than you could have stopped what happened to your sister. You were a little boy, Waylon. You couldn’t stop a car,” he says.
“I was her big brother. I was supposed to be watching her.”
He sighs. “And I was her daddy. My sole job as a father was to protect you two. Sometimes, bad shit just happens, and it’s out of our control, son.”
“You were angry with me. You blamed me.”
He shakes his head. “No. I blamed myself. I was angry with myself. And I lashed out at everyone. The whole damn world. And you were just caught in the wake. I’m so sorry, Waylon. It wasn’t your fault. And Freya’s death isn’t your fault either.”
I stand here, as a grown-ass man, and weep into my father’s chest.
“It’s going to be okay.”
“It’s not. I don’t think I’m cut out for this. She deserves a better daddy than me.”
“It’s okay, son. You’ve been a father for what, twelve weeks?
I’ve been one for twenty-five years, and all I do is mess up.
It’s a learning process. You do the best you can.
Work hard. Put food on the table and a roof over their heads.
Protect ’em. Teach ’em right from wrong.
Love ’em with all you have. And know when to let go and get out of their way.
Then when you realize that you’ve failed at half of those things, you have to forgive yourself and pray like hell they’ll forgive you too one day. ”
Caison lets out a shaky breath. “Fuck.”
Pop drops his arms, and we both turn to look at him.
“Now I’m terrified of becoming a dad.”
“Probably not the best meeting for you to sit in on,” Pop declares.
“No shit,” I mumble.
I’m still angry at the unfairness of it all, but I feel a weight lift, too, as I look at my father. Really look at him for the first time in forever. I regret the years of suffering we’ve lived through, but I’m more terrified that my little girl will endure the same.
I can’t let that happen.