Chapter Three – Father of Mine

That’s where everything started, in English class that day. I suppose, though, if the therapist and psychologists and researchers got to me, they would say things started much earlier than that. They would probably say it all started with my father.

Things were nice before my dad left. We lived in a pretty house in a decent neighborhood; my parents were invited to social functions, us kids went to slumber parties and on play dates. People liked us. It was a good life.

Everything was different now, though. We lost the house shortly after he left; mama was too depressed to keep a steady job (still is, really) and she couldn’t keep up with the bills. So we moved out to the crappy, run-down single-wide at the end of a deserted lane. People stopped calling, the invites ceased. Kids at school avoided me and Dawn, not sure how they were supposed to treat the murderer’s kids. I suspect Ryan only stuck with me out of sheer stubbornness, but he was still the only friend I had left after that day, and for that I am fiercely thankful.

It’s been ten years, but I still remember that day like it was only yesterday. Surely it is a day I will never, never forget.

We had fried catfish for dinner. I remember because I tried to make some joke about it at the table, but my parents weren’t paying me any attention. They both sat in their seats, not touching their food, staring blankly ahead. Dawn was upstairs still – she had been sick for the past three days, and my parents were worried about her. I was worried about her too, because she hadn’t wanted to go to school and Dawn never missed school. But I still wanted my parents to laugh at my joke. I was only seven; couldn’t they at least pretend to pay attention to me?

My parents’ silence filled the room. The dinner table was usually where they talked about their days, but I guess that day they didn’t have anything they needed to share. It’s amazing how deafening silence can be when you aren’t used to it. It was eerie, and somehow I know it was a weighted silence, so even I stopped joking and just sat there.

It must have been the numbing silence that made the doorbell seem so shrill when it rang, followed immediately by a loud bang on the door. I nearly fell out of my seat, it startled me so badly. Neither of my parents even flinched, like they had been waiting for the sound. Slowly, my dad reached across the table, squeezed mama’s hand, then stood and went to open the door.

A police officer stood on the other side of the threshold – a real life policeman! Back then, I wanted to be a policeman when I grew up. I know better now.

My dad didn’t struggle, he didn’t argue at all. He stood silently as they cuffed him and led him to the back of the car. He didn’t have to make a sound – my screams were loud enough for both of us. I tried to run to him, to tell the police that they had the wrong guy. No way my daddy did anything wrong. But mama held me back by the shoulders. She had always been strong for such a small woman.

And then my dad was gone and our lives fell apart. I asked mama – I pleaded with her – but she wouldn’t tell me what had happened. Dawn wouldn’t talk to me at all, it was like something was broken inside her. I tried to get her to go outside and play with me, but she never wanted to. I asked her to watch her favorite movies, but she said she didn’t like them any more. Before then we were inseparable, but after my dad left, she was not the same person at all. I lost my dad and my sister that day.

The next week I went back to school, but none of my friends wanted to play with me anymore. Except Ryan. He sat next to me in the cafeteria and swung from the monkey bars next to me at recess. He threatened to beat up any kid who made fun of me – and he even hit a couple – but that didn’t stop me from hearing what they were saying. It was on the playground that first day back to school that I learned my dad had killed a man.

I’ve asked mama over and over throughout the years about what happened, but she has always refused to tell me. She just says what’s done is done and I should move on. She washed my mouth out with soap when I told her that I would move on when she did. It had lye in it and left my mouth blistered for a week. I quit asking her after that.

But I didn’t quit wondering about what happened, which is why I was standing inside the prison’s visitation area, preparing myself to see my dad for the first time in ten years.