Chapter 60
Chapter Sixty
I would not wish my last twelve hours on my worst enemy.
There is nothing more tormenting than feeling like you just have to watch the people you love suffer. I did that in a hospital room for two weeks last year, but even that was nothing compared to the twelve straight hours of just raw, unadulterated pain that I had to watch her go through.
Last night, Lauren cried for seven straight hours.
And there was really nothing I could do aside from remind her that I was with her every step of the way. The promise was useless, however. I felt useless. Because, in truth, whether I was there or not, that didn’t change the fact that her father had shot her.
To add insult to injury, Lauren was also perfectly aware that after her father shot her, he didn’t feel remorseful enough to at least give her more than two weeks to fight for her life. He shot her, and he had no problem pulling the plug on the one thing keeping her alive.
The last five hours in the twelve-hour hell I resided in that morning, was spent watching her sleep. I didn’t even know people could cry in their sleep. When Lauren finally woke up, even though she’d slept, she was still exhausted.
“I have to get dressed,” she mumbled to me tiredly, dragging the hood of a hoodie I’d loaned her off her head. “I have an appointment with Dr. Eloise at three.”
Since the office had been closed for Christmas the day before, Lauren must’ve been written in to wherever Dr. Eloise had availability this week. When our therapist asked me if I wanted a replacement appointment some time ago, I’d refused. Lauren appeared to have accepted the offer.
“Do you want me to drive you there?”
She shook her head without energy, rubbing her reddened eyes with a closed hand. Her voice was croaky from all the crying when she quietly asked, “Are you going to be here if I come back?”
I wouldn’t dream of making her go back to her parents’ house.
“I’ll be here,” I promised. The things that I had to do today would just have to be done from home. She was showered and dressed in the clothes she’d come in the night before pretty quickly, and out the door in a blur.
I checked the time on the oven clock in the kitchen the moment the door had closed behind her, noting that it was nearly three o'clock in the afternoon. Last night had been a long one, starting off better than I could’ve ever planned and closing off badly. Very, very badly.
When she realized what the truth had been all along, Lauren became inconsolable.
It started off with speechlessness, her freezing up in a catatonic state.
I think I might’ve watched her go into a deep state of shock.
And then the tears started. Big, fast droplets pouring out from her eyes and nose, almost endless in supply.
I don’t think she actually fell asleep. It looked like she passed out from the exhaustion of crying for so long.
I didn’t sleep.
For hours, I could only watch as she slept, feeling an odd mixture of devastated that she was going through this, but relieved that the burden of hiding the truth was no longer mine to hold.
It sucked.
No person should have to discover that their father is not the person who they thought he was.
Especially not the way Lauren learned.
Even though I was tired, I couldn’t go to sleep.
She’d be back in about an hour or so, and I had to be awake to let her in.
So I made my way to the kitchen, grabbing a mug from the cabinet and made myself a cup of coffee.
When I sat at the counter, my eyes fell on the gift bag Lauren had brought with her the night before. She told me to open it when she left.
The irony wasn’t lost on me that the last time I opened a package from Lauren over coffee, I found a restraining order. That was surely nulled now.
Reaching for the bag, I couldn’t help but smile when I pulled out a baseball cap.
The gift was simple, something most people would just assume I wouldn’t be impressed by, but of course Lauren didn’t let that stop her.
The hat was navy blue, with a capital letter Y in white on the front.
On the tag attached, in her neat handwriting was a note.
Because I just know you got in!
I didn’t have much time to appreciate it, much less try it on, because as soon as I was done reading the short sentence, a knock sounded from my door.
The oven clock said exactly twenty minutes had passed.
I figured Lauren had changed her mind about going to her appointment, getting up to go open the door.
It was atypical of me to have not checked the peephole.
I was tired, though, so it slipped my mind.
When the door opened wide, much to my dismay, my uncle Vance was on the other side.
***
“I talked to Silas.”
This was the first thing he said to me after he walked passed me and into my apartment.
After the night I had, I wasn’t really trying to have a back and forth with Vance about my long dead mother, and his involvement in said death.
There was no uncontrollable rage brewing from within me over the alleged information.
I just didn’t take kindly to feeling like I’d been living a lie my entire life.
“Vance, I’m not really tryna have this conversation today.”
“What conversation?” he questioned, genuinely not knowing. “All I know is that you went to visit Silas days ago, and you’ve been givin’ me the run around ever since.”
“I thought you said you talked to Silas.”
Vance nodded, walking even further into my house like he’d been invited in. I felt a wave of irritation fall over me. Persistence was a characteristic in Vance that I often found in myself. But damn, it could be annoying.
“I did talk to Silas,” he confirmed. “Called him up for Christmas yesterday, and he asked me if I spoke to you yet, like there was something we needed to talk about. And I’m tryna figure out what that is.”
“I had a long night,” I dismissed, motioning toward the door which I still held open.
Vance squinted at my disrespect, making no moves toward the door. For a moment he just looked at me like he was trying to figure me out, neck pushing out backwards when he dubiously asked, “Silas told you?”
“Yeah.” I nodded, pinching the skin between my eyes as my patience wore thin. “He told me.”
Vance didn’t even look at the door. He doubled down on his decision to stay without invitation. “Then we need to talk about this, Youngblood.”
“What’s there to talk about? What’s done is done. I’ll ask you about it some other time.”
“No, you will ask me about it right now,” he demanded, seeming to forget I was not eight years old anymore.
I’d never had the desire to lay hands on Vance, but if he kept talking to me like that, that could change real quick.
He seemed to be most surprised at the fact that Silas had revealed the truth to me, asking again, “Silas really told you?”
I don’t answer the same question twice.
“And you really have no questions? You don’t want to know why?” This nigga was really trying to have a whole heart to heart about his reasons for killing my mother.
“If it’ll get you out my house faster, then go ahead, tell me why.”
“It was one of the worst decisions I ever made.”
“I can imagine,” I scoffed.
“I tried to make it right by being more involved in your life afterwards, but—”
“I don’t know why you think I wanna hear this,” I cut him off, patience on empty. “Vance, it’s really nothing you can say that’s about to make me understand your motivations for killin’ my mother. Regardless of the backstory, I—”
“What?” He posed the question as if what I just said came way out of left field. The way his eyes squinted in confusion at my words was just enough to let me know that me and Vance were talking about two different things the entire time. His second question was equally confused. “Your mother?”
Now I was confused, finally letting the opened door go. It shut behind me as I stepped in further. “What are we talking about right now?”
“That’s a good fuckin’ question,” Vance acknowledged, something outraged about him now. “What did Silas tell you when you visited?”
I told him.
Vance’s expression blanked, before becoming somewhat bewildered.
“Wow,” was all he said at first. “He said I killed her? Huh. Nah… Nah, nah, nah, Youngblood. Your mom… We both killed her.”
Was that supposed to make it all better?
Vance continued, “And Silas chose to leave that part out the story ‘cause he knew once the whole story got told, the big bad secret would finally get out. I should’ve known better than to think he would’ve actually told you.”
“Told me what?” I pressed, hating the fact that it felt like there was a huge chunk of this conversation that was missing. If somebody didn’t start giving me some answers…
Vance pushed out a breath, looking me square in the eyes when he revealed, “You ain’t his,” and then struggled to get the next five words out. “Silas is not your father.”
The revelation silenced me.
Those five words slammed into my world almost violently, confirming a question I’d always asked in my heart, but never with my mouth.
When you move through adolescence with the blaring reality that your father is the way he is, when you are the way you are, the question does come up one or two times.
You push it down, ignore it, because for it to be a valid thing to ask, you would have to question just about everything else, too.
And some questions are better left as that—just questions.
Vance pushed out a sigh and shook his head, his eyes glued to the ball of two hands he rubbed together nervously in front of himself. Again, he repeated, “He’s not your father.”
I’m not stupid.