Never Let You Go Page 7

  “It would be too weird.”

  “I know. Just text me later.”

  My stomach is churning as I ride fast away from the school and head downtown, where we agreed to meet at the Muddy Bean. My hood is pulled over my head and I’m wearing a wool scarf wrapped around my neck. Mom doesn’t usually go downtown, but I’m worried she will finish cleaning her last house early and decide to go Christmas shopping.

  I stop outside the coffee shop, chain my bike to a lamp pole, take a deep breath, then push the door open. I scan the people, feeling an anxious tug in my chest each time my gaze stops on a man, looking for something familiar, then moving on. What if I can’t find him? What if he’s changed so much that I walk right past him? What if he decided not to come?

  I almost don’t recognize him at first. I look past, then back again. He’s sitting at a small table in the corner, reading a newspaper, and he’s kind of frowning as though he doesn’t like what he’s reading, or maybe he needs glasses. He’s holding the paper with one hand and his other is wrapped around a large mug. I see a flash of gold. His wedding ring?

  There’s a plate with crumbs on it. He’s already eaten and I worry that I’m late. He’s a big man, his arm muscles all bunched up, and it makes the table look even smaller. I wonder if he lifted weights in prison. His hair is short, almost a crew cut, and going gray. He has a beard. I don’t remember him having a beard and I’m panicking now. What if he’s always had one and it’s something else I’ve forgotten? It feels like I’ve been watching him for five minutes. People keep bumping into me. I should walk over but I can’t make my feet move.

  He glances up. I can tell he doesn’t recognize me, the way his eyes skim past without any expression in them, then he takes another look, and smiles, but it’s kind of crooked, like he’s embarrassed or something, and his cheeks are turning pink.

  He stands, wipes his hands on his jeans. He’s not as tall as I thought, but his shoulders are large in his brown knit sweater.

  I walk over and stand in front of him. “Hi.” My hands are clutching the straps of my backpack, like it’s a parachute and I can leap out of here anytime I want.

  “Your hair,” he says. “I didn’t expect that.”

  “Yeah, sorry. Forgot to warn you.” I didn’t think about how he would react to my choppy cut, shaved over my ear on one side, long on the other, and the violet color.

  “I like it.” He pauses, just staring at me for a moment. “I can’t believe how much you’ve grown up. I mean, I know it’s been years, but wow. You’re not a kid anymore.”

  I don’t know what to say, the mood is so intense. I need to lighten it up. “I didn’t recognize you at first either. I thought maybe my father was that bald guy over by the door.”

  He laughs. “I’ve been looking at every teenage girl walking in here. I kept thinking the staff were going to ask me to leave.”

  “Yeah, that’s kind of creepy.”

  “My bad,” he says, and smiles at my look. “Hey, I learned a few expressions in prison. We had TV. Not much else to do!” He sits back down in the chair.

  I glance around the room. I don’t see anyone we know so I shrug my backpack off my shoulders and sit down, but I leave my scarf and hoodie on.

  “I didn’t order for you,” he says. “I didn’t know what you’d want.”

  “I’m not hungry.” Mom would have dinner ready in an hour. We often eat in the living room, watch TV and talk about our day. It feels like rubber bands are around my body, snapping and pulling. What are you doing? I hear my mom say in my mind. How could you lie to me?

  I just want to know what he’s like, I remind myself. I have a right to know my own father. I feel a surprising stab of anger at my mom. If she had let me visit him in prison, I wouldn’t have to sneak around. I know she was trying to protect me when I was a little kid, but I’m older now. I can make up my own mind about people.

  “What about a tea or coffee?” He spins his coffee cup and I remember how he used to make me hot chocolate after we’d been playing in the snow and how he’d spin the cup around so the marshmallows swirled and say it was for good luck. I’d forgotten all about that.

  “Hot chocolate,” I say. “I want a hot chocolate.”

  * * *

  We drink slowly. It’s raining outside now and people dash into the coffee shop, their coats slick and shiny, shaking their wet hair, giving that laugh people have when they’ve escaped something. I think about Mom and wonder if she’s feeling better. I wish she didn’t have to work today. I know she’s still upset about what happened when she was cleaning Mrs. Carlson’s. I wish I could tell her it couldn’t have been Dad—he was working at a job site on the weekend.

  I think about taking her something home from the shop, maybe some soup and a fresh-baked bun, or those spicy chicken sausage rolls she likes, but then she’ll ask questions, and I’ll have to lie about who I was with and what I was doing and I might mess up somehow.

  He’s been talking about his job. He’s working as a construction foreman for a company so he can get back into the swing of things, then he’s going out on his own again. I can tell that he’s picking his words so he sounds upbeat and positive, but I don’t think he really likes his boss.

  “I knocked off early. Didn’t want to be late.” He points to his coffee. “I’ve already had two of these.” I study his face. He looks honest, almost a little shy. “How’s your mom?”

  “I don’t think we should talk about her.” He’s never asked about her on the phone or in any of his letters and I was glad about that. Now I feel uncomfortable. I glance at his ring again. It definitely looks like he’s still wearing his wedding band. Mom would hate that so much.

  He notices my look, touches the ring. “I know I screwed things up,” he says, “but it doesn’t mean I’ve stopped loving her.”

  “She’s happy now.”

  My dad pauses and I think about my mom, wondering if what I said is true. I think she has fun with Greg—he’s really nice and has a good sense of humor, always teasing Mom about something, like how she lines up all the sponges on the sink according to color. He’s perpetually happy. I mean, who wouldn’t be when you get to wear shorts to work most of the year? But she doesn’t talk about him much. Maybe it’s because there’s not much to talk about. He’s just Greg.

  “I’m glad she’s happy,” my dad says. “Is she seeing anyone?”

  “Dad.” I stop; the word feels unfamiliar and strange and thick in my mouth.

  “You don’t have to call me that,” he says. “You can call me Andrew.”

  “Andrew.” That feels even weirder but I don’t know what to say. Maybe I won’t call him anything.

  “She must have a boyfriend. She’s too pretty to stay single for long.” He’s smiling like he’s trying to joke around, as though this isn’t a big deal, this question, but the coffee shop feels too busy now, the voices too loud, and the hot chocolate is making me feel sick.

  “No,” I say. “She’s not seeing anyone.” I don’t want to have this conversation. I told him that I didn’t want to talk about her but it’s like he didn’t even hear me.

  “That’s too bad. I really hoped she’d found someone who would make her happy.” He looks sincere but I don’t know his expressions. I don’t know him.

  “How’s AA?”

  “It’s going well.” He nods. “I have a sponsor.”

  “Are you going to all your meetings?”

  “You’re starting to sound like my lawyer.” He smiles but I’m unsure again, nervous again about upsetting him. Is this how it felt for Mom? I think about telling him that I have to leave, but I also want this. To sit here and have coffee with my dad. Like a normal kid.

  “You don’t have to tell me,” I say. “I just don’t know what to talk about.”

  “Me neither,” he says. “Let’s start over.”

  “Okay.”

  “I brought you something.” He reaches into a bag down by his feet, pulls out a long rec
tangular box, and hands it across the table. I know this box. Prismacolor Premier color pencils. I’ve stood in the art store and stared at them, but then I bought the cheaper set. I run my hands over the surface. One hundred and fifty shades. How did he know how much I wanted these?

  “Thanks. These are great.” I feel like I should say something else, but I can’t find the words, can’t explain how much I want to draw with them right now, how my mind is swirling with all the colors. I want to spread them out on the floor and touch each one.

  “Did you bring your sketch pad?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Can I see what you’re working on?”

  I pull my pad out of my backpack and pass it over to him. My face feels hot as he flips through the pages and makes comments. I hate how much I like this moment, the proud look on his face. How much I wanted to show him. I realize now that I drew some of them for him, and I didn’t even know it. This is okay, I think. Mom would understand.

  CHAPTER NINE

  LINDSEY

  JUNE 2004

  He was home. His boots lay by the front door, dust tracks and clods of dirt all over the foyer. Sophie’s pink running shoes were under his boots. I pulled them out. He was drunker than normal, had barely looked at me as he stumbled in and collapsed onto the couch.

  I stared down at him, watching the way his mouth parted as he snored. One arm was thrown above his head. His hair was long again, falling into his eyes like it did when we met. It was only the first week of June but he was already tanned on his neck, his biceps, which I used to love to wrap my hand around, and where his shirt rode up at his waist. His other hand rested across his stomach. I could lift it and it would flop back down. He’d dripped something onto his shirt, ketchup, maybe pizza sauce or spaghetti. I studied the marks. I’d have to use stain remover.

  My mom kept bottles of the stuff in the bathroom cabinet. She was always dabbing at a spill, on my dad’s shirt, one of my dresses when I was little and in my mud pie phase. She said cleaning up after my brother alone kept the company in business and they should send her free samples. She and my dad had gone for their cruise in January, came back tanned and happy. The months had staggered on. Sophie was five and a half already. She got up on her own in the mornings, helped herself to cereal, and watched cartoons. She was going to see him like this.

  I should go into her room, pack her things, and drive away. We could move in with my parents and I’d find a job. Something, anything. I felt another jolt of anger when I remembered the interior design class I’d loved so much. Then Andrew kept having to work late, or couldn’t pick up Sophie from school, or needed me to bring something to the job site. What was the point? I dropped out.

  He mumbled something, smacked his lips, and scratched at his stomach with lazy fingers. He’d wake up in the middle of the night and stumble to bed, his arm pulling me closer. The heat of his body would surround me so tightly I wouldn’t be able to breath. I’d stay awake for hours.

  “What’s wrong with Daddy?”

  I startled. I hadn’t heard Sophie sneak out of her bedroom. She was wearing pink pajamas, her hair mussed. She twirled one strand around and around.

  “He’s just tired.”

  She walked closer, leaned over him, and sniffed. Then she looked up at me and whispered, “He smells icky.” Her face was so innocent, but I could see the beginnings of awareness, the faint tone of accusation. How soon before she started to recognize the smell of beer? Would she challenge him about his drinking? How would he react?

  I moved closer, pulled her away. “Come on, Sophie. Back to bed.”

  Andrew’s eyes opened, and he swung his arm wildly, narrowly missing Sophie, and instead knocked me off balance. I fell backward onto the coffee table, then rolled off the edge. I lay stunned on the floor, sucking at the air. Sophie was beside me, hugging me tight. “Mommy!”

  “It’s okay, baby,” I said when I could finally speak, but each word made my ribs hurt and my back felt as though it had been snapped in half. I looked over my shoulder.

  Andrew was on his feet, his body swaying. “What the hell are you doing?”

  “Daddy, stop!” Sophie cried. “You pushed Mommy!”

  He stared at us for a moment, his eyes blinking slowly. “Sophie?” He reached out, and she cringed against me. His face pulled into a frown, and he took a couple of steps forward.

  “Andrew,” I said. “Andrew, please go to bed.”

  He focused on me, and I held my breath. Finally he spun around and lurched toward the bedroom. His hands fumbled for support against the wall. The bedroom door slammed shut.

  I slept in Sophie’s room, curled around her body, and smoothed her hair every time she woke. I’d gone to the bathroom, examined the damage in the mirror, wincing as I pressed a cold cloth to the upper right side of my back. That long red mark would turn to a bruise.

  When I climbed into bed with Sophie, I eased onto my stomach, keeping my back straight and holding my breath so I didn’t moan in pain. She reached over and tenderly touched my shoulder blade, her small hand drifting down my spine. “Does it hurt, Mommy?”

  “A little bit.”

  “It was an accident,” she said. “He didn’t mean to. He’ll say he’s sorry tomorrow.”

  I choked back tears. My daughter, already making excuses for him. She’d learned that from me, I suddenly realized. She’d learned to forgive him. She wasn’t even six.

  * * *

  In the morning I snuck out of bed while she was still asleep. He wasn’t in our room. I found him in the kitchen pouring a cup of coffee. He lifted the carafe. “Want one?”

  “No, thanks.” I sat at one of the barstools around the kitchen island. The black leather stools he’d picked out, which I hated because they felt cold and were too masculine-looking. “We need to talk.” I was jittery, had to brace my legs on the stool.

  He turned around with a heavy sigh. “Sorry about last night. I didn’t eat dinner, and the booze hit me too hard. We finished a job and I wanted to celebrate with the guys. You know how it is. They kept buying me drinks.” I thought of the food spills on his shirt. More lies.

  “You pushed me. I hit the coffee table.”

  He looked shocked, his head jerking back. “No, I would remember that.”

  Of course he would deny it, but I was surprised at how convincing he sounded. He was a much better actor than I realized. If I didn’t know how he always remembered every single time I’d failed one of his rules, even when he was drinking, I might have believed him.

  “Sophie saw everything. She was terrified.”

  Now he scrunched up his forehead like he was thinking over the night, trying to remember. His expression turned ashamed, and he sat down on one of the barstools. “I hurt you?” I nodded, and he rubbed his hands through his hair, his eyes wet as though he was going to cry. “I’ll take the day off, okay? We’ll talk about it, and we can take Sophie to the park.”

  “The park isn’t going to fix this.”

  “You’re right. I’m an idiot. How can I make it up to you?” He grabbed my hand. “I love you so much. You’re my heart and soul. I hate thinking that I scared you like that. Can you forgive me?” He looked so serious, so upset, that I found myself faltering for a moment.

  “I don’t know,” I said. “What you did? It’s abuse.”

  His eyes widened. “Hey, I’m not one of those guys. Don’t even talk like that, okay? I got too drunk and made a mistake, but I didn’t do it on purpose.”

  “It doesn’t matter if it was on purpose, it still happened.”

  “I’m sorry. I’ll tell you I’m sorry a million times. I’ll spend the rest of our lives making it up to you. We’ll stay in the same house until Sophie leaves for university. Whatever you want. I’ll do it.”

  “Your drinking is getting worse. I can’t deal with it anymore.”

  “What are you saying, Lindsey?” He looked nervous now, more scared than I’d ever seen him. “You want me to slow down? I’ll sto
p drinking after work, okay?”

  I took a deep breath and pulled my hand free. Maybe I should wait until later, when he wasn’t hungover. He hadn’t even finished his coffee. No, there was never going to be a good time. I had to do this now, while he was still remorseful, while I was still brave.

  “Our marriage isn’t working. I’m not happy. You’re drinking all the time—and Sophie sees, she knows. You won’t let me do anything. You’re so controlling. I feel like I’m suffocating.” I saw him flinch but the words were tumbling out of me. “I’m going to take Sophie and move in with my parents for a little while. If you get help, go to AA, maybe we can—”

  “You can’t leave.”

  “I’ve already decided.”

  As soon as I said the words, it was like someone pulled a mask over his face. Everything smoothed out, his cheeks, his forehead, even his mouth straightened, and his eyes went blank.

  “We’ll talk about it tonight, okay?” He glanced at his watch. “I’ve got to get to work.” He sounded so calm now. It was like we were talking about what to cook for dinner. I’d expected him to go ballistic. I searched his face, confused. Didn’t he understand what I was saying?

  He walked over to the counter, grabbed his lunch box, and left without giving me a kiss. I stood at the window and watched his truck disappear.

  I told myself that he just needed to think it over. He’d take some time today and then he’d understand that he needed professional help. He had to see that this was best for everyone.

  * * *

  I dropped Sophie off at junior kindergarten, watched her trudge inside, her Barbie backpack so full it was almost pulling her over. She’d been quiet, her coloring book on her lap. I wondered if she heard her father and me talking that morning. I rubbed at the bone under my breast, caught my breath at the sharp stab of pain when I thought about how her face lit up when he said he was going to take her to the job site or to the hardware store with him, how she did a little dance and ran to the door. It didn’t matter where he took her, she was always thrilled.