Chapter 6 - He Came Back For Me And I Never Knew
I was fourteen.
That was the third time.
I remembered that year because I broke my wrist in volleyball and refused to stop playing until the coach pulled me.
Mom called it stubbornness.
Dad used to call it bad math.
Apparently he had been in town that spring.
“Why me?”
I asked.
Owen sat now.
“He heard you were asking questions.”
“From who?”
“Your aunt Carol.”
Mom’s sister.
She had died six years ago.
Of course all the people who could confirm our childhood were disappearing one by one.
“What questions?”
“Why Ryan got quiet whenever Dad came up. Why Mom wouldn't let you see the old store paperwork. Why Owen disappeared too.”
I didn't remember asking Owen’s name.
Maybe I had.
Fourteen-year-old anger leaves messy files.
“What did Dad do?”
“He drove here.”
“Here?”
“To your school.”
My mother closed her eyes.
I stared at her.
“You knew.”
“Yes.”
“What happened?”
“He called me first.”
“Why?”
Margaret’s voice was barely audible.
“Because he was trying not to ambush you.”
Reasonable.
Then came the choice.
“What did you tell him?”
“That you didn't want to see him.”
I stood.
Ryan whispered:
“Mom.”
She kept looking at me.
“I believed it.”
“Did you ask me?”
“No.”
“Then you didn’t believe it. You decided it.”
Margaret’s face tightened.
“I had heard you tell Carol you never wanted him back.”
I remembered that.
Maybe.
After Dad missed my birthday.
After a letter from him never came.
Or maybe it did.
I suddenly didn't trust the sequence.
“I was fourteen.”
“I know.”
“Did Dad leave?”
“Yes.”
“Did he try again?”
Owen looked at Margaret.
She did not answer.
He did.
“Not for a long time.”
“How long?”
“Six years.”
I laughed.
It came out ugly.
“So everybody was waiting for everybody.”
Nobody responded.
Good.
I had no patience for lessons.
I wanted facts.
“When he came back six years later?”
Owen looked at me.
“You were in college.”
“What happened?”
“He called you.”
I stared.
“No.”
“Yes.”
“I would remember.”
“Maybe.”
He gave me the month.
October.
My sophomore year.
I remembered a voicemail from a number I didn't know.
I never listened.
Telemarketers were relentless.
“Did he leave a message?”
“No.”
“Why?”
Owen shrugged.
“He lost his nerve.”
That sounded like Dad.
Infuriatingly human.
I sat.
Margaret looked at me.
“I did not stop that one.”
“I didn't ask.”
She flinched.
Good.
Ryan turned to Owen.
“When did Dad die?”
“Eight years ago.”
“We know.”
“No.”
Ryan’s jaw tightened.
“When did you last see him?”
Owen looked away.
“Two months before.”
“What did he say?”
“About you?”
“Yes.”
Owen took a breath.
“He asked whether you still believed you started the fire.”
Ryan went pale.
“What did you tell him?”
“That I didn't know.”
“Did he call me?”
“No.”
“Why?”
“He said if you had built a life without needing the truth, maybe coming back only to clear his conscience would be selfish.”
Ryan's hands curled.
“Was it selfish?”
Owen looked at him.
“I told him yes.”
Silence.
My head turned.
“You told him not to call.”
“I told him not to call only because he wanted forgiveness.”
“Same result.”
“I know.”
Ryan stared at him.
“You've been standing here acting like Mom kept us from him.”
“She did.”
“And you did too.”
Owen swallowed.
“Yes.”
The family villain kept changing chairs.
Then my phone rang.
A detective from the fire scene.
He wanted to speak with Ryan.
Immediately.
Not about the old fire.
About why Ryan had told Ethan nobody was inside after hearing someone scream.
May you like
Ryan looked at me.
For the first time all day, he looked more afraid of the present than the past.
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