Chapter 12. Liam #2
I look around the room. Families everywhere: happy ones, with kids, little siblings, some guys from here who are actual parents and whose children have come to visit.
Good thing I'm at least not a father, I think.
When I become one someday, if I do, I'll do it differently.
I'll show up. I'll keep my promises. I won't drink, won't use anything, I'll have a job, pay the bills, build a quiet, ordinary life.
That's all I want. A normal life, a place to live even if it's rented as long as I can make rent on the first of the month, grocery runs, a kid bringing home decent grades, weekends at the arcade or the lake.
I think that's possible. People have those lives. People around me are having these lives right now. And then I think about Ethan out there, with people who've never seen the inside of a facility, people who already have that life and complain every day about how boring it is.
And that maybe Ethan and I are never going to work out there in the real world. And that I need to stop feeding myself fairytale bullshit.
I have to start getting used to the idea.
Ethan is going to leave, have his life, and even if he says he wants to wait for me, I'm not going to let him.
It isn't fair to him. I can have a happy, ordinary future someday, but it probably won't be with him, and I need to get that through my head once and for all.
My dad is taking a long time.
I feel my eyes sting. Fuck, no. Not here.
Not in front of all these families, not in front of the guards who would’ve thought I'm not fit to receive visitors and send me back, or worse, tell Griff and put me back in extra therapy sessions, take me out of the kitchen, away from Lu and Margarete and Dora again.
I breathe deep. Look at the clock.
He always does this. Says he'll come and doesn't. I should've known. I did know. But he'd called this time, promised, and I'd believed him, and now I'm sitting here alone, surrounded by dysfunctional-but-present families, with no Ethan next to me, and it's getting harder and harder to swallow.
I'm about to wave down a guard to take me back when he walks in.
Heavier than I remember. Hair thinner. But smiling, that put-together look. He adjusts his glasses at the entrance, scans the room, and when he finds me, his face breaks into this huge smile.
I don't know how I don't cry. Must be a new record.
"Dad," I say, and manage to make it sound like my nose is running from allergies. Not one tear. Not one.
I stand up and we hug.
"Sorry I'm late, son. Got lost at an intersection, ended up driving like twenty extra miles. It was a nightmare," he says, and laughs.
I laugh too. My heart is hammering with joy and relief.
"Doesn't matter. You're here now."
We sit down. He asks how things are.
"Exactly the same," I say, shrugging. "Not much changes when you're locked up."
"I imagine," he says, with a slightly sad smile. He doesn't like that I'm here. Obviously. But he knows, somehow, that this place has saved me in one way or another. I know that too.
We talk, and I think it's going to be awkward, but it isn't. It feels natural, like I've just woken up and we're sitting at our kitchen table back home, not like all these months have passed.
He tells me about a guy at work called Mark who is making his life hell.
"Keeps trying to dump all the twelve-hour shifts on me because he's a lazy piece of shit," he says, looking right at me.
"But I've got a plan to get rid of him."
"You really can't tell me that kind of thing in here," I say, glancing at the guards with my most innocent face.
He laughs. I laugh. We always match each other's humor like that.
"Like father, like son," he says. "At least we'll get to spend more time together."
"You're too old to end up in here. They'll send you to a different kind of facility if you kill Mark."
"Fair point. At least this one has windows," he says, and we laugh again.
After a while he gets more serious. "There was something I wanted to tell you in person. One of the reasons I came."
"Yeah?" I ask, my stomach already doing something unpleasant. Here it is: he's sick, dying, something.
"I'm seeing someone. More than seeing, actually, she's already moved in."
My jaw drops. Wasn't expecting that.
"Wow, Dad. That's… that's really great." I say it, and I genuinely don't know if it's great.
Him replacing my mom. Well, my mom has been dead for a long time, and he's never dated anyone…
maybe partly because of me, because now that I'm out of the picture he's free to do whatever.
But I promise myself, about a million times just in that moment, that I'm not going to be resentful about it.
"Her name is Marianne," he says. "And we're going to get married."
"You are?!" I practically yelp.
"Not anytime soon, don't worry. But it's serious. I waited six months to tell you… wanted to be sure."
We sit in silence for a second.
"What's she like?" I ask. Better to just get it out of the way.
"She's wonderful, Liam." That stupid grin on his face. "I've never felt this alive, this happy." I recognize that look. It's the same one I probably have when I talk about Ethan. So it has to be real. "She knows you're here," he says, before I can ask.
"And what does she think about it?"
"Well, she said you're an adult and you know your own situation."
I don't know what to make of that answer. Better than calling me a fuckup, at least.
"Does she have kids?" I ask.
"A daughter. She's at Harvard."
"Her daughter's at Harvard and your son's in prison," I say flatly.
"Don't say it like that. She knows you're everything to me. We don't compare you two."
I'm already comparing us, and I don't even know the girl, so I doubt it's that simple. But I say nothing.
"Right," I say, not sure what else to add. I'd thought about mentioning Ethan, that we’re still together, but if we're not going to actually end up together, better not to open that door. That thought keeps me occupied for a second, and I quickly change subjects.
"What's your prediction for the Super Bowl this year?"
And just like that, we're back on football. Our hour goes by fast.
When I stand up to go, part of me is almost relieved to go back inside.
With my dad, I have to watch myself constantly, don't want to say anything that would worry him or make him realize I'm not doing great.
But Marianne's imaginary face keeps floating around in my head.
Living in my house. Maybe using my room. Her daughter at Harvard.
Well, she's right that I'm an adult who knows my own situation. My dad doesn't owe me anything anymore. That isn't my house. It's his, and if he marries her, it will be theirs.
Which makes it pretty clear that I don't have anywhere to go back to.