My father looks at me.
“The damage has been done,” he agrees. “But there’s no reason to make it worse. Let’s talk.”
I sit down and take a swig of water.
“Fine. Why didn’t you force me to talk about what happened?”
If we’re going to talk, we might as well cut to the chase.
My father stares at me, then his gaze drops to the floor.
“Because it was easier that way. I took you to a therapist and you wouldn’t talk. I tried to get you to talk about it myself, you refused. And then I decided that maybe I really didn’t want to know what happened. If it had scarred you so badly, then I wasn’t sure that I could deal with it either. So I stopped trying. And then the therapist told me that he thought you had actually suppressed the memories, so it seemed to be for the best.”
I take another drink. My tongue feels thick from dehydration.
“Did they ever catch him?”
I cringe when my dad shakes his head. “No. They didn’t have a description to go on. None of the neighbors saw anything, they didn’t see anyone coming or going. The police didn’t have anything to work with.”
Fuck. Yet another reason to feel guilty. I could have given them a description.
“What happened that day?” my dad asks. “I need to know. There was gun residue on your hands. And you had that cut. But the police couldn’t determine what happened, except your mother wasn’t sexually violated. She had epithelial cells in her mouth, but no trace of se**n. There was no match to the DNA sample in the police database. I know this is hard to think about or talk about. But what did you see?”
I close my eyes, squeezing them hard before I open them again. My dad is still staring at me, still waiting for answers.
“I heard mom crying. I found the guy in your room with a gun held to mom’s side. The guy forced her to give him a blowjob. I tried to help, but when I did, I bumped the gun and it went off. She’s dead because I tried to help. If I hadn’t, she would still be here today.”
My father chokes a little and I try to swallow the f**king lump that keeps forming in my throat. He looks at me.
“Do you really think he would have left her alive?” Dad finally says. “Think about that, Pax. She knew what he looked like. If he told you that he wouldn’t have killed her, he was lying.”
“He left me alive,” I tell him limply. “Maybe he would have left her, too.”
My dad shakes his head, his cheeks flushed. “No. He wouldn’t have. He probably couldn’t bring himself to kill a kid in cold blood and he felt confident enough that he’d scared you into silence. Your mom never stood a chance, Pax. There wasn’t anything you could’ve done about it.”
He turns away now, staring out the window.
“But there’s something you can do now. Now that you remember, come with me. Let’s fly to Connecticut right now and sit down with the detective who handled the case. You can give him the description. What did the guy look like, anyway?”
I feel a chill run through me as I picture the guy’s sneering face. “He was skinny, with a gray ponytail and yellow teeth. Really yellow teeth. He was wearing a blue striped shirt.”
My father is frozen.
“I know who you are talking about. That was our mailman. I’d never forget that gray ponytail or those horrible teeth. Pax, go pack a bag. We’re going to Connecticut.”
“The mailman?” I am incredulous. “I don’t remember the mail man at all.”
“You wouldn’t, would you?” my dad answers. “You were only seven. I used to tease your mother that he would find silly reasons to bring the mail to the door instead of leaving it in the box. I used to joke with her that he had a thing for her. We laughed about it. We thought he was just a little strange and lonely. I had no idea…”
Dad’s voice chokes off and he looks away for a minute and pulls himself together before he looks back at me.
“Get your things, Pax. That sick bastard deserves to pay.”
The idea that I might find just a bit of redemption spurs me and I do get off the couch and go pack a bag. As I’m cramming my toothbrush into my overnight case, I see a ring laying on the counter. I pick it up. Mila must’ve left it. Her mother’s wedding ring. I slide it onto my pinkie and finish packing.
In my haste, I leave my cellphone in the house and don’t realize it until we are speeding away toward Chicago.
“Don’t worry,” my dad says. “If you need a phone, you can use mine. We won’t be gone that long anyway. Maybe a couple of days. This is huge, Pax. That f**king guy will finally get what he deserves. All they’ll need to do is match his DNA. This is huge.”
My dad is more animated now than I’ve ever seen him. There is life in his eyes. I look at him.
“Dad, why did you think it might be best if I never remembered? What did you mean? Best for me? Or best for you?”
My dad glances at me with a sober look before returning his eyes to the road.
“Maybe for both of us. I knew the memories would shatter you. And after they found the gunpowder residue on your hands, I didn’t think I wanted to know what happened. I couldn’t begin to imagine, but I wasn’t in a good place. And if I’d found out that you had a hand in her death, even accidentally, I didn’t know if I could get past it.”
“But I was a kid,” I choke out. “I was trying to help her.”
“Yes,” my dad says, leveling a gaze at me. “You were. I’m glad you realize that. But I was in a bad way then. Grief does that to a person. And so I coped in the only way I knew how. I threw myself into work. And when that didn’t stop the pain, I packed us up and moved us across the country.”
“Did that stop the pain?” I ask him.
He looks at me. “No.”
I glance down at my hands and stare at the ring on my finger. I take it off, spinning it round and round in my hands. The inside has words inscribed. I peer closer to read them. Love Never Fails.